


there’s no such thing as nsfw when ‘work’ is a modern art museum

by caseyvalhalla



Category: Hunter X Hunter
Genre: M/M, Surprise Penis, Take Your Fandom to Work Day, leg warmers, thirsty kurapika
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-12
Updated: 2017-08-12
Packaged: 2018-12-14 12:48:37
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,286
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11783484
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/caseyvalhalla/pseuds/caseyvalhalla
Summary: He stands there staring at Leorio’s smile for several seconds wondering what he’s supposed to do with the gorgeous, oversized male artifact knocking on the door to art storage.  There aren’t any boxes big enough for him, and he won’t fit on any of the painting racks, but Kurapika could, potentially, find some space for him on one of the compactor shelves with the ceramics.  He should be accessioned properly, labeled, catalogued, photographed, and preserved for future generations.





	there’s no such thing as nsfw when ‘work’ is a modern art museum

**Author's Note:**

> Some leopika for Take Your Fandom to Work Day 2016 (yes it was last year and it's taken me this long to get it to Ao3 haaah). I miss my art museum job now sighhhhh.

The downside to working in art storage during the summer is that you never see sunlight, ever.

The upside, of course, is that it’s always air conditioned.  And that sometimes during lunch break Kurapika can get away with taking a nap pillowed on one of the plastic bags of ethafoam scraps wedged in the alcove behind the textile racks, alongside a small host of mannequins and spare rolls of Tyvek and phototex.  And that he’s usually alone so no one cares if he’s logged in to 8tracks and blasting 80’s synthpop playlists over the constant roar of the ageing, overworked HVAC system.  Most days it’s just him perched on a stool at the work table bent over a cutting mat, surrounded by barrier paper scraps and scribbled dimensions and bits of twill tape, cutting a portfolio envelope or interleaving for a growing pile of newly-matted photographs.

There are other downsides, though, and the biggest one is this:

It starts with the summer-hire technician, who might be the most adorably manly creature he’s ever laid eyes on.  He’s six feet and some inches of well-toned gorgeousness, rich brown skin and sparkling eyes, hair cropped short in a way that makes Kurapika’s palms itch, imagining the texture.  He’s not particularly religious but is pretty sure he ought to be worshiping some god in thanks for the way this man’s t-shirt hugs his waist and biceps.

He’s shuffling his feet when Kurapika opens the door that connects the storage vault to the study center, responding to an unexpected knock, hunched over like he’s self-conscious about his height, or used to being around people much shorter than him, or perhaps like he’s hit his head on doorframes one too many times.  Kurapika blinks, and he smiles as broadly as a door-to-door salesman.

His name is Leorio.

Kurapika is unprepared for this meeting for more than one reason.  First, he’s been putting away a stack of works on paper, which means hauling around flat black archival boxes full of art, which are goddamn heavy.  Which means he’s sweating and stripped down to the camisole under the t-shirt under the sweater that’s his usual defense against the HVAC system.  Which means all he’s wearing is that and black leggings and the leg warmers sagging around his ankles and the edges of his pink flats.  It’s appropriate, he figures, with Depeche Mode blaring in the background.

Second, he’s not been introduced to Leorio, and no one from the workshop downstairs called ahead to say they were sending someone up to pick up a loose art portfolio, so he stands there staring at Leorio’s smile for several seconds wondering what he’s supposed to do with the gorgeous, oversized male artifact knocking on the door to his vault.  There aren’t any boxes big enough for him, and he won’t fit on any of the painting racks, but Kurapika could, potentially, find some space for him on one of the compactor shelves with the ceramics.  He should be accessioned properly, labeled, catalogued, photographed, and preserved for future generations.

It may or may not be fortunate when, after introducing himself, Leorio says, “I’m here to pick up your mat order,” and Kurapika realizes he’s not an art piece.

One of the tables in the study center is still padded and covered from the class the day before, so Kurapika slips out the door and lets it slam shut on the strains of Personal Jesus filling the vault.  The loose art portfolio is in one of the cupboards, and when he pulls it out to set it on the table Leorio predictably jokes about how the unbleached cotton pad cover looks like a fitted bedsheet.

Then, less predictably, adds, “Almost like you’d be getting up to something other than art around here.”

Kurapika straightens, not sure if his skin is prickling because of the innuendo or because of the cooling sweat on his neck.  “That wouldn’t be archival.”

He says it with a flat expression, head tilted to the side, looking up and measuring the distance between his eyes and Leorio’s, but the man laughs–throws back his head and laughs like he’s just seen the best comedy act of his life.  Somehow, just like with the broad salesman smile, it doesn’t come off as fake.

It’s a great moment.  It’s nearly perfect.  Kurapika is thinking about smiling, possibly, or striking up a conversation, asking what brought Leorio to the framing workshop for the summer, what he thinks of the Pae White installation in the lower gallery, how much he can lift.  Anything.

He doesn’t remember what he was saying, at the moment he opens the portfolio–something relevant about the mat order, probably.  The beginnings of a joke he promptly forgets, if he were actually charming.

Whatever it is, he chokes on his own saliva the instant he sees the full-color, larger than life image on top of the pile of photographs inside.

It’s not even a momentary thing, either; Kurapika wheezes, and at least has the presence of mind mid-suffocation to turn away from the art and crouch on the floor before descending into a coughing fit.  It lasts long enough that Leorio bends over him in concern, which might have been nice under other circumstances.

When he stands back up his face is burning red–from lack of oxygen, not embarrassment, but the damage is done either way.

“So,” Leorio says, one hand scratching the back of his neck.  “That’s a penis.”

Kurapika’s voice comes out in an unflattering croak.  “This is a modern art museum.  Genitals happen.”

“Oh, no, I get it.  I mean, I’m a med student, I see them all the time whether I want to or not.  Of course, they’re usually not this… magnificent.”

“It’s been over-saturated and enlarged.”  Kurapika coughs into his elbow, windpipe still tickling unpleasantly, and balks when Leorio chuckles like a twelve year old.  “Photographically, I mean photographically.”

“Right, right,” Leorio reassures him, flipping the portfolio cover closed.  Kurapika doesn’t want to think about him downstairs in the workshop, cutting mat board especially for the penis photo, fitting corners to it, measuring the window, constantly face to face with its magnificence.  “Are you sure you’re okay?”

“I’ve survived worse.  We’ve hosted Joseph McCarthy exhibits before.”

Leorio blinks, but seems to be filing that away, taking it in stride.  “Let me make it up to you.  I’ll bring you a coffee when I deliver the mats.”

“I can’t have food or drinks in here.”

“Oh.”  Leorio looks to the side, hands slipping casually into his own back pockets.  “I guess I’ll have to take you out then.”

Kurapika blinks at him and his forced nonchalance, and coughs again, then steps around him.  “I’ll get you a cart.”

There’s a heartbeat of hesitation before Leorio’s voice says quietly, “Okay.”

“My break is at four.”

He’s not looking, but he can practically hear Leorio’s posture straighten, the smile curl across his face.  “Okay!”

It’s an hour later, probably, when Kurapika’s brain has re-oxygenated itself enough to realize that Leorio could not possibly have this job and not know that food and drinks are forbidden pretty much everywhere except the office and the break rooms.  That the curator who last handled that particular portfolio spends a lot of her free time downstairs with the technicians.  That there might be a distinct possibility he’d just been set up.

“I’ll go out with him,” Kurapika says decisively to the stack of 1970’s sketchbooks he’s rehousing.  “And then I’ll either buy her chocolate or get her back.”

The HVAC system offers a particularly loud grumble, and that sounds enough like a sign that Kurapika doesn’t push his luck any further than fate already has.


End file.
